Reason to Believe
by littlejuliesparkles
Summary: PostXF. Mulder and Scully are on the run, their faces plastered everywhere. When a gas station attendant recognizes them, what will she do?


TITLE: Reason to Believe

AUTHOR: littlejuliesparkles

SUMMARY: Mulder & Scully are on the run. But is everyone against them?

RATING: G

CATEGORY: very slightly implied MSR, post-series, mytharc (ish?)

SPOILERS: "The Truth"—mostly allusions, though

ARCHIVE: Just let me know where so I can visit.

DISCLAIMER: I only own the narrator. Whoop-dee-doo. No money here.

FEEDBACK: would be nice!

_What a load of crap_, I thought as I read. I usually don't read tabloid magazines unless I'm in need of a laugh. I find the Bat Boy stories particularly hilarious. They make working at a gas station in the middle of nowhere a little less monotonous. On this afternoon, though, I was reading the tabloid for the sake of criticizing it. My eyes were getting plenty of exercise, too, from rolling so much. I mean, really, are there people who actually believe this nonsense?

For example, the article I was reading delved into how a couple of dangerous fugitives wanted by the government for espionage were really just former federal agents trying to use their knowledge of government secrets—conspiracies, aliens, and the like—to basically save the world from an impending apocalypse. The article went in depth about these people and their belief that aliens would soon annihilate humankind and take earth for themselves. _I'll believe it when I have reason to believe it_, I thought.

I looked up at the sound of a car. A little white sedan had just pulled up next to pump number 3. I watched it, happy to have something else to amuse me. Watching customers was the next best thing to reading about the Bat Boy's latest escapades—or renegade feds, for that matter.

A man sat in the driver's seat, a woman in the passenger's. _Tourists_, I thought.

They did not get out of the car immediately. The man said something to the woman. She nodded and moved to get out of the car. He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She laid her other hand on his as she gazed into his eyes. The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. She said something to him and got out of the car.

"She" appeared fairly average. Petite, definitely, but not especially eye-catching. Her dishwater blond hair was bone straight. Long bangs framed her face. The woman's clothing was nondescript although somewhat worn. I pretended to read my magazine as she swung open the door.

She came up to my register. "Fill-up, please," she said, sliding two twenty-dollar bills toward me. She noticed herself on the security camera TV in the corner and added, "And we're gonna get some other stuff too."

"Sure," I said with a smile and went to activate pump 3.

The woman then headed for the restroom. I turned my attention to the man. He wore fairly plain clothes and a baseball hat. A developing beard lent him a rugged aspect. Dark brown hair fluttered from underneath his hat. The afternoon winds were picking up. How handsome he was! Not quite my taste, I admit, but handsome nonetheless. He leaned against the car while the gas tank filled, his head turned westward. He stared at something I could not see. Perhaps he could not see it himself. His form was there, motionless, against the car, but his mind was altogether elsewhere. He snapped out of whatever trance he had been in when the pump shut off. So did I.

Meanwhile, the woman had come out of the restroom and was now browsing the refrigerated cases at the back of the store. The man finished up at the pump and came inside, making a beeline for the restroom. I returned to my reading.

Several minutes later, they came up to my register with their arms full of merchandise. I closed the magazine and scooted it to the side of the counter. Pallor momentarily flashed across the man's face. They laid out their items in front of me, and I began to ring them up. Three 1-gallon jugs of water. One loaf of bread. Two bags of sunflower seeds. One pack of batteries. Four boxes of matches. One bar of--

"Is that your son?"

My head snapped up. She was looking at the picture I kept taped to the wall above the phone. I paused and studied her for a moment. I now noticed her blazing blue eyes, her delicately convex nose, and her faintly flushed cheeks. Every detail of this woman's appearance had suddenly come into sharp focus, right down to the reddish roots of her otherwise blanched hair. I even noticed the fine lines in her skin that anxiety had so gradually and subtly etched.

"Y-yes," I stammered. Then I regained my composure. "His name is Danny."

I resumed scanning the items on the counter. One bar of soap. One box of instant rice. "How old is he?" she asked, her voice soft and quiet.

"Nearly two," I replied and turned to admire my son. "I live for him," I trailed off.

"He's beautiful," she said.

I turned and met her glossy blue eyes. "Thank you," I said sincerely.

My eyes traveled up to those of the man. He had been silent the whole time, but the look in his hazel eyes said all I needed to hear. I quickly turned my attention back to the cash register. I could feel those eyes searching me, reading me, analyzing me.

"Will that be all for you today?" I asked, knowing that it probably was but wanting to direct the focus of our interaction back to the sale.

"No," the man spat out before the woman could say otherwise.

She shot him a questioning look. He caught and held my gaze. With his face completely devoid of expression and eyes locked on mine, he reached over and picked up the magazine I had been reading. He held it in front of him. After what seemed like ages, the eye contact between us was broken. He looked down at the magazine's cover. The woman gaped at it. His eyes returned to mine. He placed the tabloid on top of the pile. "This too."

They watched me as I grabbed the magazine to scan it. Why were these people so tense? I could feel anxiety radiating from them; it nearly dizzied me. I looked from one face to the other. Then my gaze swept down to the tabloid's shiny cover. Staring back at me were the two fugitives from the article I had been reading.

The realization hit me like a sack of nails, but I apparently did a decent job of hiding it. I flicked the magazine under the scanner. The register beeped. "Your total comes to fifty-six dollars and twenty-seven cents," I said evenly.

The man plunged his hands into his jeans pocket and retrieved a wad of cash. He thumbed through the bills nimbly, his fingers working out the folds and creases in the paper. He counted the money once. "She already gave me forty," I informed him.

"I know," he said without looking up.

He counted the money a second time. He turned to the woman. She had been watching him the whole time. "We only have forty-six dollars left," he said in such an undertone that I could barely hear him.

Her look of amused impatience dissolved into one of concern. "Are you sure?" she queried.

He said nothing, just looked into her fearful eyes. "I'll go and check the car. I might have something stashed," she mumbled as she hurried for the door.

"Wait," I said as neutrally as possible. "Don't worry about it."

"What?" she asked, her hand on the door.

I rolled my eyes. I didn't want to make a big deal out of this. "I'll take care of it. Save your money."

I slid the twenties back across the counter to where the man's hand rested. I ventured a quick look at him before reaching for my wallet. Fifty-six dollars and twenty-seven cents were transferred from my wallet to the drawer.

They now stood together before the counter, unsure of what to do or say. I bagged everything, printed a receipt, and put it in one of the bags. By now, I felt just as awkward as they probably did. Hesitantly, I brought my eyes up to theirs. "There you go," I said. It was all I could think of.

The man's penetrating green eyes were expressive as ever. "Thank you," he said softly.

_He knew_. I saw it in his eyes. He was praying. Praying that I would say nothing. Praying that this little encounter in the middle of nowhere would not lead to their capture. His tacit plea did not go unheard. Of course, he wasn't just thanking me for the groceries. He was thanking me for believing. It gave him hope, and hope would keep this enigmatic man and stoic little woman alive and kicking for far longer than instant rice and bread ever could. He implored me to be silent, to ensure that they had reason to hope, even if only in the short term. _Trust me_, I thought.

I then regarded the woman, who was simply thanking me with her glacial blue eyes and a tight smile. After what seemed like an eternity, they grabbed the bags and started for the door, one after the other. His free hand came to rest on the dip in her back, guiding her out the door and back to the race for their lives. It was a race they were guaranteed to lose—probably from the very beginning.

"Is it true?" I asked. My voice faltered slightly.

They were nearly at the door. He slowly turned. Those frighteningly honest hazel orbs stared me down one final time. But this time I saw in them something else. His gaze had softened. He was silent for a moment, but he knew what I was talking about.

"Yes," he said apologetically.

And then, like ghosts, they were gone.


End file.
